


Reprise

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Three years joking about fucking the sword and apparently I'm the first to write it, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11810217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: Red finds herself needing more than just a bathroom break.





	Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the kink meme prompt [here](http://superkink.dreamwidth.org/464.html?thread=17872#cmt17872). OP is probably long gone from the fandom but I went there looking for Red/Boxer smut and I found only unfilled prompts. So, you know. Had to do something about that, yada yada, I said that last time too. 
> 
> I've got a non-smut fic started, so I promise I'll start making valuable contributions to this fandom soon. Or at least more widely accessible ones.

It’s the way he says “Just… hurry back,” that gives Red pause. With her hand on the break room door, she stops, her chest suddenly tight and her vision blurred. She clutches the door knob—tries to pull herself together—but even the fury that has coursed through her for the past few days, powering her determination when despair would have been easier, is too _much_ right now. Her hand shakes, and she can’t allow that. She whirls back towards him and grasps the _thing_ he’s trapped inside and before he can even ask her what she’s doing, she’s dragged him into the break room with her.

The eye-like red circle on the Transistor twitches slightly from side to side as he looks around. “Hey, Red,” he says, joking to cover his nervousness, “I have a feeling this thing isn’t waterproof…”

She shakes her head. She isn’t going to shower just yet. Not if it means letting him out of her sight. For now—for just a few minutes—she’s going to stay in here, with him, and she’s going to pretend that the locked break room door is enough to keep her from having to fight.

“Red?” he asks, the sarcasm leaving his voice in favor of his reliable tenderness. “You all right?”

She hesitates, and then shakes her head no. She’s run halfway across the city, fighting the Process all the way, and yet somehow she hasn’t managed to escape the realization that he’s—he isn’t _gone_ but he’s not here with her. Not properly, not anymore. Nor has she given herself time to grieve, because how is she supposed to face this knowledge without his arms to wrap around her?

She picks up the Transistor and embraces it as tightly as she can. It hums with a strange warmth that’s almost like a body, but far too angular and hard. Nothing like him. She hugs it anyway. He gives a long, shaky sigh, and she wonders if he breathes, where he is.

“Red, I wish…” he says, and then hesitates. If she closes her eyes, she can picture his tongue darting nervously over his lips as he chooses his words. “I know I wasn’t at my best when I said this before, but I wish I were still out there with you. I meant that. If I could just _hold_ you…”

She nods, biting her lip. She can’t cry on him. On _it_. And she can’t cry, because there is still so much she needs to do. Asher and Grant are waiting, and she knows that he wants to take a swing at Grant (she can almost _feel_ it, she thinks), and they need to stop the Process before it can do any more damage. She needs to hurry, because if she doesn’t hurry then that means acknowledging the possibility that it’s already too late.

But she just can’t picture leaving this break room yet.

She leans the Transistor against the sink and then slips out of his jacket so that she can drape it around him. Kneeling before the Transistor, she strokes her fingers down its glowing surface as she has stroked his face so many times.

“Red…” he says, and she wonders what face he’d be making if he still had a face. That crooked smile of his? Or something quieter than that, more awed? She can’t tell. She can’t even _ask him_. The Transistor’s eye twitches as if he’s trying to read her face, and she wonders what he sees. “Red,” he says again, “I love you.”

She nods, loving him just as fiercely and wracking her brains for a way to answer him. “Paper Boats” comes to mind, but the thought that he might be out of her reach—that she will not be able to keep the promise she swore so fervently—makes her stomach twist with fear. Instead she closes her eyes, leans her forehead against him, and hums the wordless bridge of “She Shines.”

He waits for her to finish. When she doesn’t continue on to the song’s final chorus, he asks, “Thinking about the city?”

She shakes her head, her eyes still closed, and he makes another guess.

“That night?”

The first time she had performed “She Shines”—the night an altercation broke out at her concert.

Red nods silently and strokes the Transistor with her fingertips again. She remembers being paralyzed by alarm and _bafflement_ as the audience fell away from her, suddenly blinking free of the spell that her music wove and that they had so willingly submitted to. She remembers hearing shouts, but she’s never been able to remember what was being shouted. She remembers a warm hand around hers and _Red, let’s get out of here, let’s_ go _—_

She hadn’t stopped to question how he’d gotten up onto the stage; his hand, his _worry_ broke through her trance and she’d turned to run away with him. It was only after they’d made it away from the noise that she’d realized how desperately she was trembling. As soon as she noticed it, his arms were around her to hold her steady and safe.

“First night I told you how I felt about you,” he says now, and then snorts. “Well, in words, at least.”

She chuckles, a smile touching her lips for a brief moment. He hadn’t needed to say it for her to know; they’d been inescapably drawn to each other for months by then and when she’d finally kissed him, hardly a week before the disastrous concert, there had been no surprise. Only the feeling of something finally slotting into place, the sense that his hands were always meant to find their way to her skin.

So when he’d looked her in the eye after they escaped the concert together—when _Red, I love you, I_ **_love_** _you_ fell from his lips as if expressing it was the only thing that could keep his heart from bursting—she hadn’t needed to hear it to know. She’d needed to hear it because she was still stunned from the sudden awful turn the evening had taken, because the desperation in his voice grounded her. She could not be lost if she had him to rely on. She believes that now, too; she hopes he knows it.

He’d invited her home that night—but not with any untoward intentions in mind. No, he’d invited her to his place because the thought that there might be reporters hovering by her own apartment, waiting to extract a statement on the violence, made her dizzy again, made her hand shake inside of his.

Besides—he lived closer.

_You take the bed_ , he said once she’d changed out of her dress and into a bathrobe that was several sizes too large. _I’ll be fine on the couch_.

She’d looked at the couch, and then back at him. _You won’t fit on that couch. Not well enough to sleep._

_I’ll be fine_ , he said. _Don’t worry about me._

_I’m not worried_ , she answered, laughing a little, and she reached up to pull him into a kiss. She didn’t want him to sleep on the couch. His bed was big enough for both of them.

His breath came ragged against her neck and his hand trembled with its need to reach past the bathrobe. And yet still he managed to ask, _Tonight? Are you sure?_

_Yes_ , she breathed, and then he didn’t have to fight it any longer. He slipped the robe back off her as she reached for the buttons of his shirt. It was a miracle that they made it to the bedroom at all. She remembers his warmth sliding into her, remembers his hands around her waist to steady her as she rode him. She remembers the way he gazed at her, need and awe and _love_ ; she remembers how climax made his voice hoarse and made her laugh with joy. She remembers lying in his embrace afterwards, utterly encircled by him, and finally daring—once she was sure he was asleep—to murmur _I love you, too._

She remembers his _touch_ , and her skin yearns for it now. Is she flushed? She feels it, feels almost feverish, as she runs trembling fingers down the Transistor once more. She knows what this feeling is.

“Red? You okay?”

The smile she answers with is a bit awkward. She would ask his permission if only she could _speak_ ; she would at least warn him of what she is thinking. Instead she leans in and kisses the Transistor’s hilt, brushing her lips against it delicately. He gives a pained laugh.

“Wish I could feel that,” he says, and she nods in silent agreement. Then she sets about rearranging things. His jacket goes over her shoulder for a moment. She lowers the Transistor to the floor, holding the hilt steady such that the blade is on its side, perpendicular to the ground. She folds the jacket into fourths and places it atop the blade.

But he doesn’t realize what she’s up to until she actually straddles him, settling onto the cushion she’s made for herself as she pinches the Transistor between her knees. It’s not elegant, but it will do to answer the need pulsing insistently within her. She waits for his response.

The Transistor flashes once, mutely, before he can actually think of something to say. “Hi,” he says, less a greeting than an acknowledgment. “Red, are you sure this is the time to…”

She gives a quiet laugh that doesn’t have any real joy in it. Does he think they’ll have a chance for it later? And maybe he can read that on her face, or read it in her mind, because he answers as though she’s spoken.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

She hesitates, stroking the hilt gently. Questioningly. If he’s uncomfortable with this—

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “Go ahead. If I can’t touch you, maybe this is the next best thing.” Then, more quietly, “Go ahead.”

It barely counts as a substitute, but as she begins to rock against the blade, it’s _enough_. She remembers his touch and her breath begins to come fast, pleasure creeping outward from her core.

He makes a shaky sound as though he’s exhaling. “Got myself a nice view here,” he remarks. “Wish I could… …yeah.”

She snorts gently—fondly. He’s never been one for dirty talk. It’s always been _may I_ and _are you sure_ and then silent, utter devotion. She remembers the feel of his mouth against her, and what voice she still has escapes as a whimper.

“Red,” he answers, desire aching in his voice.

She nods, agreeing with what he is too reserved to say. Shifts so that she’s barely brushing against the Transistor, because she doesn’t want this to be over too soon. She keeps hearing quiet huffs from him, as if he’s breathing heavily—as if he still needs to breathe. Maybe he can feel this, or at least imagine it. Or maybe he’s just reminding her of his presence, that he’s still here with her.

She pretends that he is. _I love you_ , she wishes she could say. She thinks of the hum of his lips on her skin as he would say it back to her. She remembers his touch, remembers the surprising softness of his hands. It’s nothing like this. But this is still _him_ —for now—and that means it’s what she wants.

For a moment, he falls completely silent. But as she slows her pace, trying to figure out how to ask whether something’s wrong, he speaks again.

“Hey, Red, I think I can—”

She gasps as he begins to vibrate against her, her back arching of its own accord. Her mouth shapes an _oh_ that she cannot voice.

“There.” He sounds satisfied—not smug, but genuinely pleased. “That good?”

She nods with another whimper, her legs trembling as she rocks against the buzzing Transistor greedily.

“Good. Don’t know how long I can keep it up, but at least I can do this for you.”

She hears his frustration that he can’t do more and shakes her head to ward it off. But even if she still had her voice she wouldn’t have had the composure for a decent counterargument now. She can feel _everything_ , from the way he pulses between her legs to the tile floor beneath her knees, from the sweat trailing down her back to the pleasure pulling tight within her. She is desperately close.

“Red, I love you,” he murmurs, and she pretends she can feel his breath against her ear. She pretends he is holding her. “I’m right here. I love you.”

One last whimper, and then a shuddering gasp as orgasm finally bursts over her. Her limbs tremble and she lets the Transistor fall flat as she holds herself up on her hands and knees. She shakes, and her fingers curl under with the effort of keeping her release from turning into tears.

He waits for her to collect herself, patiently.

Finally, she exhales and straightens. She stands and corrects her skirt, and then she picks the Transistor up and hugs it as tightly as she can. He glows lightly, warmly, in answer.

“I love you,” he says, one more time. She nods against him.

Then, with a sigh, she glances towards the showers apologetically. She’s even sweatier now than she was before. He snorts.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “I’ll wait.”

She pops back outside to lean him against the railing, jacket draped over him once more; then she slips into the break room and starts the shower. The water is cool against her skin, and invigorating. Determination and fury come back to her. She’s ready for them once more.

_I’m coming, Asher. Grant. I’m coming to find you, and you’re going to tell me how I can have him back._

When she emerges, clean for the first time in days and her hair carefully set into place, she’s able to smile at him. She likes to think he’d be smiling back.

“Good?” he asks. She slips her arms into his jacket and takes up the Transistor once more before nodding firmly. “Good.”


End file.
